


Classified Action

by DreamingPagan



Series: Rescue Verse [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012)
Genre: Alec's fine he's spent two years getting the therapy he needs, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Brosnan Bond, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Goldeneye happened differently and Bond lied, Happens post-Tomorrow Never Dies, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nudity, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: The year is 1997 and Tiago Rodriguez is badly in need of a rescue. Lucky for him, James Bond is passing through and tired of losing friends.
Relationships: James Bond/Alec Trevelyan
Series: Rescue Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797727
Comments: 19
Kudos: 45





	1. Rescue Aid Society

**Author's Note:**

> It seemed awfully convenient that Tiago was handed over in 1997 and that Tomorrow Never Dies took place the same year. Add in the stealth tech going missing and well....
> 
> Tiago Rodriguez was framed, folks, and that watch Bond finds was his. So is the Walther.

There is a watch on James Bond’s wrist and a gun lying on the nightstand nearest him and he cannot, somehow, quite shake the notion that they are too familiar.

There is a beautiful, talented woman with truly devastating aim lying next to him. He should be asleep beside her, wrapped up in her arms. He should be sleeping. He should be comfortable and relaxed after a hard fight and a victory on the scale of their takedown of Eliot Carver and his scheme to start World War Three. His shoulders are aching and his hands echo them, reminding him that he is not a young man anymore. 

Bond is not sleeping, and he cannot stop fiddling with the watch.

It’s…

Incredibly, truly fucking frustrating, that’s what it is. Bond sighs, and sits up, running a hand through his hair. He picks up the gun on his way past the nightstand, and then pads over to the small table in the hotel, stopping to reach for his trousers as he goes. He’s going to regret this - he _knows_ he is going to regret this, and yet -

It could be nothing, he thinks irritably. It very likely _is_ nothing that the watch, when he tried it, was set to the same specifications he’d expect from one of his own with a couple of small differences. It is nothing, too, that it’s the same brand - Omega Seamaster, hardly surprising given the demand for top-quality operative gear. And it’s not as if he can test some of the more destructive functions of the watch here and now, but damn it - if he turns the dial twice and pushes the pin once and finds that it shows him the date and time in London - if he finds what he expects - 

He pushes a button and the watch cheerfully announces the time in Portuguese, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them, Wai Lin is standing in the doorway, watching him.

“Where is he?” he asks, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Where is who?” she asks, and he does not rise - he does not want to, because so help him, if he does there is going to be more than civil conversation in this room this morning and he has no desire to make this any messier than it has to be because it will not help him find Tiago Rodriguez alive to give him back his watch.

“Where. Is. he?” he grinds out again, and holds up the watch. “Do you know whose watch this is? Or maybe you’d like to lie to me and tell me that they just kept the old settings when they made their improvements since they seemed to work so nicely?”

His voice has risen in volume. He does not care, not about that or about the way his hand has curled around the watch almost protectively while the other sits clenched in his lap.

Wai Lin hesitates, and Bond stands. 

“Tell me,” he insists. “I saved your goddamn life and I helped you find your traitor, you can repay me by telling me where the _hell_ your superiors are hiding the man who went down in his place! Tell me!” 

He can picture all too clearly exactly what went down. Rodriguez had been captured some three months earlier. General Chang had taken the stealth technology some months before that; they must have thought Rodriguez the culprit, and who more easily blamed than the foreigner working at Station H with his talent for hacking and habit of sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong?

He steps closer, and Wai Lin holds up her hands in a placating gesture.

“There’s no need to get loud,” she says, and turns away. Bond does not follow, and after a moment she turns back.

“I don’t know his name. I don’t know where they’ve put him,” she answers, and he advances a step. 

“I’m not asking you to betray state secrets -” he starts hotly, and she cuts him off.

“I know who does and how you can find him,” she tells him firmly. “I am not your enemy here, and I don’t want to keep your friend. We have found our stealth technology. He’s a drain on our resources.” 

“Give me a name,” he insists, and she sighs.

“General Chang,” she answers. “My people will have picked him up by now. They will be holding him for interrogation. He knows the location of your agent. Let me go with you and I will -”

He turns on his heel and starts toward the bedroom before she can even finish her sentence.

“I’ll find him alone,” he says curtly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, _Colonel Lin.”_

He gathers his shirt and slips it on in the silence that ensues. It could not have lasted anyway, he tells himself, and slips on the watch. He’ll return it today, but not with Wai Lin beside him, tempting her government and his to misinterpret. No. If he goes alone, they might both still survive this. He slips on his shoes, and slips Rodriguez’s gun into his holster. 

“Don’t die,” Wai Lin says quietly when he turns toward the door to the room. “And James?” 

He turns back.

“He was not careless,” she says quietly. “He was betrayed. Be careful.” 

*****************************************************************************

He will never be able to talk with General Chang truly alone, and he knows it. It’s a lost cause already but - 

He knows Rodriguez. They’ve played poker together. They’ve traded stories, shared drinks the few times he’s been in Hong Kong recently. Santiago - Tiago to his friends - is an affable young man with a bright future in the espionage trade even though he shares Alec’s ill-fated double-0 number. Bond can’t turn his back on him, so he calls Tanner and hopes for a miracle. 

“The man’s been in the interrogation room for fifteen hours, 007, you’re going to have to wait until morning,” Tanner’s voice says over the phone, sounding exasperated. “The room’s bugged all to hell anyway, we’re having to tailor everything we say, it’s a goddamn _nightmare_ frankly -”

It’s just about one o’clock in the afternoon and if Bond hurries, he can have Rodriguez rescued before tomorrow. He clenches his hand around the phone. 

“Then take him _out_ of the room. The man’s got to be starving by now and dead men tell no tales,” Bond answers. “I need a moment, Tanner, and I need it now. A man’s life may hang on it.” 

“Well if he’s not going to die before midnight then-”

Bond hits the end of his rope very, very quickly, and the next words out of his mouth are terse, clipped - curt.

“Tanner, listen to me very closely. I am not going to allow another 006 to be lost, or another friend for that matter. I’m not going to allow another Alec, not on my watch. You can try to stop me, or you can get me in there, but one way or another, I am going to find Rodriguez and save him the way I should have saved Alec Trevelyan. Which one is it to be?” 

There is a moment of silence. There is a beep - the sound of Tanner walking, and then, muffled, as if the man has moved to a coat closet -

“Bond - are you certain? He knows where Rodriguez is?” 

“As sure as I can be. They had his equipment, Bill,” Bond answers, and Tanner swears.

“Alright,” he answers. “I can get you five minutes. You’ll have to be in and out in that time - I can’t keep them distracted any longer, and even then it’s a risk. I hope you’ve got a plan.” 

“I’ll leave him alive,” Bond promises. 

The rat who’d betrayed Rodriguez can’t be Tanner. It simply can’t be. He walks toward the interrogation chamber purposefully, and tries not to feel crosshairs lining up on the back of his head. It cannot. Be. Tanner.

*********************************************************************

Bond leaves the building exactly five minutes later, and it is all he can do to walk instead of running. 

He does not stop on his way out of the interrogation chamber, and he does not look behind him. He will change his clothing at the first opportunity, and he’ll use Rodriguez’s gun instead of his own until he gets the chance to retrieve another from … somewhere, anywhere that is not an MI6 safehouse. M will likely send someone after him sooner than later when she learns he’s spoken to General Chang. He should warn Tanner. He should run as far and as fast as he can get once he’s found Rodriguez and try to - 

Deep breath. In. Out. There is absolutely no use in dwelling on what he cannot change, not when Rodriguez is still a prisoner. He needs to get to Rodriguez and then, knowing the Chinese and their interrogation tactics, he will need to find a place for his fellow agent to recuperate. And…

He will need to call the friend whose name Bond cannot even think about until he is off of MI6’s radar because Bond had lied when he told them how the Goldeneye mission had ended. He should call him before he goes for Rodriguez, really - there’s a distinct chance Bond’s going to be shot at, after all, and _someone_ should stand as backup. If he were half as ruthless and as intelligent as M, he should let Rodriguez save himself but he can’t, and so he needs to call Alec and he needs to go and get Rodriguez out of the prison in Guangdong before Bond loses another friend and ally. He can’t handle another Paris.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Once more. His hands are steady, his powers of observation are heightened - he is calm. He is going to go to the nearby bar and place a phone call, and then he is going to find transportation north. He is going to cross the border, and then - then he is going to fix what M has broken. Somehow. 

************************************************************************************************

The cell is cold, and dark, and Tiago Rodriguez wants so, so badly to just have clothing again, even if it’s only socks. Just something - anything at all. 

Everything hurts. That has become a constant of life, but today even his hair has endeavored to start hurting. It’s because of the cold in the cell, he thinks muzzily. The cold is making it hard to think, hard to move, and yet he has to keep moving if he wants to live. It is cold enough in here and he is naked enough that to stop moving is to freeze to death. They have not fed him recently - he knows they have not, because even if he cannot tell the time, he knows that his bodily functions have slowed down. He paces the length of the cell back and forth and rubs his arms. Tiago stuffs his hands into his armpits and then when they have warmed just a bit he uses them to warm his freezing cock. Feet come last - they’re getting all the warmth anyway, he thinks a little hysterically, and wonders once again how he is ever going to withstand winter in England after this. He won’t, that’s all there is to it. Maybe he will demand that M station him in Spain, or better still, somewhere in the Americas, far to the south where there’s a fresh crisis every other week. He’s never been - and at least he will speak the language. When he gets out - when he is found - 

If he is found, a small voice whispers in the back of his mind, and he shuts it down at once. He _will_ leave this place. He will live, and he will be found. He must be. She would not leave him here to face - what he has faced, not forever.

Tiago squats, trying to let only the soles of his feet touch the floor and not his rear. He cannot let the cold seep into him from anywhere else - he cannot rest, but he wants to, oh God, he wants rest so badly. Clothing, and rest, and food, and - 

He slaps himself hard, and lets the pain warm his face temporarily. They must turn the cold off soon - they must. They still want him alive, or he would be dead already, and that means that they must turn the damned cold off and then - 

Tiago shivers again, and this time not from the cold. They are going to warm him, which will mean the irons again - pain, and heat, fire scorching his hair and burning his skin, and then the unholy hell that is the steam room, choking him on the humidity. The walls will close in around him again, as if they are not close enough here, not windowless enough. The ache of cold against his missing fingernails will be replaced by the swelling and then will come the water again, and the screaming when the hot water hits the burned skin, and right now he cannot care about any of that, because he is _cold_ and he is tired and he must, must keep silent.

He stands up, and continues walking. He could do jumping jacks, Tiago thinks darkly. He could put on a show, and then perhaps one of the guards will come and - _warm him up_ , maybe. He has never been certain where the camera is in this room but perhaps if he bends over - pretends to falter a bit - well. Playing to his guards’ lust has worked in the past.

There is a hallway outside his cell. It has two doors that lead onto it, and there is a courtyard - one that he has had to walk through naked before, trying not to weep, and right now, he can hear the doors opening. He can hear the doors banging open, he realizes - not just opening but clanging, and in fact - 

“ _Secure the prisoner - close the doors -!”_

Chinese voices rise in terror. There is shouting - an alarm starts to wail and then is cut off abruptly. Someone screams, and Tiago feels his breath catch in his throat. There is a bang - a series of them, and then another, louder, closer, an _English_ voice -

“Where is your prisoner? Where is he? Are these his clothes?” 

Tiago scuttles all the way to the corner, and brings his knees up against his chest, and he prays - he prays as quickly and as hard as he knows how and he cannot do it out loud, not even now, but this has to be - please, dear God, please, please he murmurs, please let it be a rescue - let it at least be an _end_. He is breathing too fast, and the floor is still so cold against his arse - 

The door opens, and a wash of warm air enters the room, and then there is another man standing in the doorway, looking at Tiago with horror and relief on his face and Tiago’s clothing held in his fist. He turns back for one moment, shoots the last remaining guard, and then returns his gaze to Tiago. 

“Laundry service,” he says, holding out the clothing, and Tiago wonders, just for an instant if he’s gone mad. 

“L - laundry?” he stutters, and then he begins to laugh. He cannot keep it from becoming a sob, or that sob from becoming another, until he is shaking and laughing and crying at the same time. 

Later, Tiago thinks - later he is going to go to church if he can find one. After he is done weeping because someone has finally brought him clothing. 

********************************************************************************

James is going to be sick in a while, he thinks. Once he has gotten them both out of here, he is going to go to the bathroom and be quietly, copiously ill.

It is spring in China and he can see his breath in this goddamn concrete room where they have been keeping 006 prisoner. The man is shaking violently, naked as the day he was born, covered in fresh and half-healed wounds from head to toe and - 

Bond tries not to gag at the smell now that the warm air has penetrated the room further. Oh God. Oh _God_ it’s horrible, and he doubts that Rodriguez can even smell it anymore. 

He crosses the room quickly. There isn’t much to it - perhaps six paces long and that again in width. When he reaches Rodriguez, he kneels, and offers him the clothing. Rodriguez is crying, Bond realizes - his chest is heaving and he is sobbing almost silently, one hand held up to cover his mouth, the other holding onto his legs, helping to fold him in half.

“Rodriguez. It’s alright,” Bond says quietly. “I’ve come to get you. My name’s Bond - James Bond.”

He’s not certain how much Rodriguez remembers right now. He’s not sure how much of the man he remembers he’s arrived in time to rescue, but he tries to accompany the words with a grin - tries to be reassuring. Rodriguez does not seem to notice. He continues to weep, and Bond swallows hard.

“I’ve got your clothing here,” he says, holding it out to the younger man. “Can you walk, once you’re decent again?”

Rodriguez’s sobs turn into hiccoughing, and he nods wildly against his knees.

“Yes,” he chokes, raising his head at last to reveal dark eyes which he does not focus on Bond’s face but rather somewhere over his shoulder. “Yes. Where - how did you find me?” 

The slightly accented voice sounds as if he has not spoken in some time. 

“Found your equipment,” Bond answers. “I got lucky.”

The room is beginning to warm up, he thinks with some amount of relief. He’d switched off the refrigeration unit upon entering the room, but it is still damned cold in here. His feet ache just from entering, and he cannot imagine what Rodriguez has gone through being locked in here. He holds out the clothes again, and this time Rodriguez reaches out and takes them, his bloodied, nailless fingers clutching at the fabric. He swallows hard, apparently trying to keep from crying again at being provided such basic amenities as clothing and conversation. 

“You came for me. You are - very late,” Rodriguez says, and offers something that might almost be a teary smile, which Bond returns. 

There is no point in telling him, right now, that Bond is not late but rogue and not here from M. That revelation can wait - for right now, it is more important to get Rodriguez out of here, and quickly. 

“A thousand apologies,” he offers. Rodriguez starts to get up and then seems to recall that he’s naked and remains sitting, one hand covering his groin and the other tucked into his armpit, obscuring his chest as if he can conceal his nudity somehow. He is still breathing hard, and he tucks his face against his raised knees, trying to regain his composure. Bond stands and turns away to allow the man some dignity, and he hears Rodriguez stand behind him. There is the rustle of clothing - a muttered swear word, and then, in a small, embarrassed voice -

“Can you help with the buttons, please? My hands - they -”

Bond turns again. Rodriguez is half dressed, trousers hitched up around his waist looser than they should be even undone, shirt on his shoulders but hanging open, and judging by the look on the man’s face, he might just die of shame if Bond says a single word just now. Bond does not comment - simply steps closer, ignoring the other man’s flinch at the motion, and helps him into his clothing, even going so far as to help him cinch his belt before stepping away. Rodriguez takes a moment to pat at himself somewhat hesitantly and then, slowly, he raises his chin and looks Bond in the eye for the first time since the door opened. 

“Thank you,” he says, voice still choked with emotion. “They haven’t given me clothes in - I don’t even know what month it is, I couldn’t -”

He chokes again, and shakes his head, and then, to Bond’s surprise, he simply throws his arms around Bond in an embrace. Bond raises one hand tentatively and pats the other man’s back before he relaxes and returns the hug properly. 

“It’s April 1997,” he says, and Rodriguez gives an almost disbelieving huff of laughter. 

“Thank you,” he says again, and pulls away. “We should get out of here. You said you had my equipment?” 

Bond hands over the other man’s gun wordlessly, and tries not to be affected when Rodriguez’s hands shake in taking it. The other agent performs the familiar task of checking the magazine and pulling back the slide and then holds out one hand. It shakes like a leaf in a rainstorm, and he sighs. 

“ _Filho da puta_ ,” he mutters under his breath, and hands the gun back to Bond. “You will have to hold onto it, I will only be a danger if I aim it at anyone right now.” 

Bond nods and slides the gun back into its holster. He does not miss the grimace of frustration on Rodriguez’s face or the flash of apprehension as he looks toward the open door. 

“I hope you cleared the path,” he says, and Bond grimaces. 

“To a point,” he answers. “Stay close.”

Rodriguez nods. 

“Alright,” he answers, and then they move out of the cell, and Bond tries to ignore the sound of Tiago spitting on one of the bodies.

“He earned it,” Rodriguez explains, and moves on, his step seemingly lighter.

****************************************************************************

There is - sunlight, beyond the walls of his torment. 

Tiago emerges into the light of day with one hand raised to shield his eyes, and nearly stumbles at the feeling of something other than concrete under his still-bare feet. Bond catches him - places one hand gently under his elbow and then, when they reach the car that Bond has driven here, he allows Tiago to take the front passenger seat. He is leaving - he is truly leaving, truly free once more, and it seems surreal. They pull away from the government facility - onto the street as if nothing has happened, calm and smooth and Tiago wonders when the shouts and alarms will begin. They must - this is far too easy, otherwise and yet - 

Nothing happens. There are other cars on the road like theirs. There are people walking on the pavement as they drive - ordinary people who are not shouting, not hurting him - oblivious, in fact, to the truth that he has been held for three long months and tortured. Life goes on out here. 

He is clothed and unbound and it is over, even if every part of him still hurts abominably. 

He takes a moment to bow his head and catch his breath, and in doing so, he realizes that Bond is driving a car that is distinctly not MI6 issue. There are none of the bells or whistles - barely a functioning radio, for that matter, and suddenly Tiago is hit with the urge to hear music, any kind of music at all, no matter how unfamiliar. He looks to Bond, and wonders if he dares ask.

“We met, in Hong Kong,” he says after a moment of studying his rescuer from beneath his eyelashes. “I remember. You were passing through on your way to… I think it was Singapore. You drink - Bollinger, 1961.” 

Bond glances at him.

“Good memory,” he praises, and Tiago feels a small knot of anxiety in his chest ease. He straightens a little, and even goes so far as to truly look at Bond’s face. 

“I had heard the stories about you, 007,” he says. “Today I believe them.”

He is not lying. He has heard the stories of Bond’s many escapes from trouble seemingly by luck and the skin of his teeth alone and now, he has seen one. It seems a sort of miracle - the sort of fever dream that Tiago has had a few times since his capture, and for a horrible moment, he wonders if that is all this is. Perhaps he has passed out in the cold and he will wake, still naked and chilled to the bone if he wakes at all. Perhaps this is a last illusion. The alarms should have sounded by now, and there should be gunshots, and -

The corner of Bond’s mouth lifts. 

“I had a bit of help this time,” he says. “With any luck and a little interference, it will take the Chinese a day or so to realize what’s happened. If we’re even luckier they’ll think that you shot your way out on your own and they’ll have no one to report it to but their own government. If I know anything about the CCP, they’ll cover it up.”

It takes Tiago a moment to process that. His mind is still muzzy from the cold and the pain - still trying to accept the notion that the degradation of the past few months is done, but after a moment, it hits him.

“You - you jammed their comms,” he says. “The phone lines and - and the _satellites._ But - it cannot have been done from MI6 - the guards have been agitated, the past two days, and the transition, it still hasn’t happened-” 

Bond’s smile tightens minutely.

“Let me worry about that,” he answers, and Tiago feels a chill move over him that has nothing to do with the lingering cold of his cell or the length of time it has been since he ate (too long). 

His rescue has not been cleared, and this is not an MI6 operation. He should care. He should be demanding to know what’s happening, but -

He’s tired. He’s been kicked and beaten and burned, humiliated and violated more times than he can recall in the past month, let alone the one that came before, or the one before that. Wherever Bond has come from - whoever has sent him - Tiago cannot find it in him to be anything but grateful. He wants a bath, and food that doesn’t make him wretch after eating it, and to sleep on a moderately soft surface, and then, maybe - maybe - he will find the strength to concern himself with whether World War 3 is about to begin over his rescue. For now, he gives Bond a tight smile in return, and then winces as the gesture pulls at half-healed bruises on his face.

There is a mirror, he remembers, on the side of the car. He could look. He could find out just how bad it is. He glances - and then closes his eyes tight for a second despite the pain. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, and looks back to Bond. “Please,” he begs, “tell me that there is hot water where we are going.” 

“We’re ten minutes away,” Bond says. “Try not to think about it.” 

He wants a bath, and to shave, and then food, Tiago decides. Anything at all to get the dead animal off of his face and the grease out of his hair, and then he will rest. Maybe when he wakes up the bruises will have receded and he will look less like a dead man walking. Maybe.

He hopes so. If this is a dream, then it’s a very, very realistic one and he doesn’t think he has the energy for it in his current state.

*************************************************************************************

Bond pulls up to the safe house just after night falls, and together, he and Rodriguez make their way inside. The younger man is limping now, fatigue canceling out the rush of adrenaline from the rescue and making way for pain. He will not take it kindly if Bond interferes, though, and so they make their slow, painful way to the house until at last Rodriguez collapses into Bond’s arms and allows himself to be carried the rest of the way by virtue of being unconscious. It’s just as well, Bond thinks, as the door of the house swings open to reveal the tall, lean form of his partner. He’d have a nasty shock he can ill afford otherwise.

“You’re late,” Alec Trevelyan says harshly, and stands aside for Bond to enter. The light inside glints off of the scars on his angular face, and he scowls. “What the hell took you so long?” he asks, and James nods to Rodriguez. 

“Wanted to be sure we weren’t followed,” Bond answers. “He can’t take any more.” 

Alec looks at the younger agent, and something like pity moves across his face. 

“Good fucking Christ,” he murmurs, and gets out of the way, allowing Bond to take his hideously light burden and move him to the bed sitting in the corner of the back bedroom. 

“We’ll need antiseptics,” Bond says grimly. “And a tox screen. I’ve no idea what they might have given him but he seemed lucid enough for the most part. Did you bring the clothing and soap?” 

Alec gives him an irritated look. 

“No, James,” he answers. “I thought we’d all just marinate in our own stench for a month or so. Of course I’ve brought them.”

James turns his attention to Alec. He looks tired, he thinks - tired, and concerned, and there are creases in his clothing that suggest that he has in fact been wearing it for several days running.

“You’ve been monitoring things here,” he says, and Alec sighs. He runs a hand over his hair and then his face and nods.

“Yes,” he admits. “What the hell were you thinking going aboard that submarine?” 

“Someone had to do it,” Bond answers, and Alec scowls.

“You nearly died, _again_ ,” he snaps. 

“It’s not as though I could call you in at such short notice,” Bond argues.

“Still not willing to trust me, James?” he snaps. “Afraid Mad Little Alec would spoil your fun? Or did you even think of me, tucked away in Zurich and bored out of my wits now that -”

Rodriguez groans, and as one they return their attention to him. The tension breaks, and they look to each other, chagrined.

“I called you,” Bond says quietly, and Alec nods. 

“You did,” he agrees. He stands, and leaves the room, heading toward the kitchen and simultaneously giving Bond enough leeway to collect himself.

It’s good seeing Alec’s face again after these last two years. It’s good to hear his friend’s voice, better still that Alec’s been concerned about him rather than furious with him. It’s good. This is all progress, Bond tells himself. That would not - could not have happened when he’d first dragged Alec back from the brink in Cuba and delivered him to the clinic in Switzerland. 

Alec had been an absolute raving madman, and Bond still has no notion how he’d ever have gotten him out of the country, let alone kept Wade quiet about him if not for Natalya. He’d made the right choice in saving Alec, but only just, and the past two years’ frequent absences haven’t helped patch things up between them. Maybe now - now that Bond’s gone completely rogue. Maybe now that his time doesn’t have to be spent covering his trail after every two day visit - 

He shakes his head, and turns his attention back to Rodriguez. They’re going to have to bathe him, he realizes with a sinking feeling, and they’d better do it before he can wake and disagree with them about the matter. 

“Alec,” he calls. “I’m going to need your help in here in a moment.”

*****************************************************************

It’s been two years, and there are still times when Alec Trevelyan wonders if he is ever going to be able to look at James without the undercurrent of programmed rage and betrayal.

He should go back in there. He should be able to look at the man who saved his life with something approaching gratitude. He should be able to speak with him without having a blazing row, and the fact that he can’t is testament to the fact that he is not ready for this yet, he thinks, and he sighs at himself. James saved his goddamn life. James tried to save his goddamn life twice, not just once - the security camera footage from Arkangelsk proved that much. So why, _why_ can’t he seem to convince his damned stupid body that he knows that much? 

“Alec?” 

James’ voice comes from the bedroom again, and Alec swallows hard. 

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he calls. He came out here for antiseptics, and clothes. Antiseptics, and clothes, and a moment to remember that he is not the beaten, helpless man in that bed anymore, nor the man being actively tortured. He is not who they made him, and he is not. Angry. With James. His heart is pounding too fast, and his palms are sweating, and he knows what this is - knows where it comes from, too, this all too physical response. This is what they programmed into him and he can recognize it. He is not the panic they’d instilled in him, or the jealousy, or the fear. He can tame it. He takes a deep breath; lets it out, takes another, and then another, until he is not shaking with anger anymore. 

“James deserves better,” he murmurs, and then turns and goes to help James with their newest charge.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a layer of filth on Rodriguez thick enough to write in. That’s the first obstacle, to be handled before all else.

“We’re going to get you clean,” Bond says into Rodriguez’s ear as the man starts to wake. “Easy, easy - Alec, hand me the sedative, will you?” 

Tiago’s eyes flutter open, and there is panic in them. 

“No drugs,” he croaks. “No - please, I can’t -”

Bond stops, hand still held out, and Alec freezes in place. 

“James?” he asks, and Bond shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Wait.” 

Tiago starts to sit up, and as he does so, he looks around the room. He looks to Bond, and then to Alec - and then his eyes widen again.

“Trevelyan?” he asks, and Alec gives him a crooked smile.

“James excels at finding strays,” he says, and Tiago closes his eyes.

“I am dreaming,” he says, and James shakes his head.

“No you’re not,” he answers, and Tiago opens his eyes again. He relaxes at the sight of Bond.

“You are still here,” he says, and Bond nods.

“I’m here,” he confirms. “I’d like to give you a bath, get you cleaned up. Alec’s going to help. Alright?” 

Tiago frowns, and then seems to realize what that entails. He freezes, eyes widening. 

“No,” he says, and then, “I - want to be clean, but I don’t - it is not -”

He stops. 

“That is why the sedative,” he realizes, and Alec nods.

“Yes,” he confirms. “We could give you a half dose. Just enough to relax and take some of the terror out of it.”

Rodriguez continues to frown, but there is something uncertain in it now. He mulls the question for a second and then reaches out a hand.

“Show me the bottle,” he requests, and Alec hands it over without a word. Tiago reads the label and then reads it again and slowly, slowly he hands it back to Alec.

“Alright,” he consents. “A half dose. Quickly, please.” He closes his eyes and slowly, tremulously he holds out one arm. Bond takes it gently and injects the drug, examining Tiago’s arm as he does so. There are small burns on it, and a few bruises but nothing more serious - small mercies then, although he has no such illusions about what he will find on Tiago’s chest and back. 

Tiago still flinches when they remove his clothing, but it is a momentary instinct. He steps into the bathtub under his own power and lowers himself in, hissing slightly at the heat of the water. He closes his eyes, and then opens them again a second later and relaxes against the back of the tub. 

“Go ahead,” he says, and James and Alec move in, washrag and sponge in hand. 

*****************************************************************************

The water is hot - hot, and scented, and with the drug in his veins, Tiago can almost pretend that he is far, far away, being bathed at a spa after a long, hard mission. His muscles relax for the first time in months. His arms do not hurt, and his shoulders twinge only a bit, and his toes are warm - so wonderfully, wonderfully warm for the first time in months, which is bliss in itself. All of him is warm but not scorching. Bond’s arm wraps around his chest from behind, holding him up, and Trevelyan works carefully on his scarred, torn back and limbs, and then - then one of his hands dips lower, touches the cleft of Tiago's arse with the washrag, and Tiago tenses. The sound that exits his mouth is not one he recognizes, nor is the way that he reaches for the side of the tub, hands trying to lever him out even as his feet scrabble for purchase.

“No,” he gasps. “No - not there - don’t -” 

He can’t move as he would like. His fingers won’t grip and his traitor feet won’t support him and oh yes - it is the work of the sedative that he’d agreed to precisely to deal with this situation. He can’t move, and they don’t know - they can’t _know -_

The hands withdraw, and a look passes between Bond and Trevelyan, one full of rage and pity and if they did not know before, they do now.

“Shit,” one of them hisses - Trevelyan, Tiago thinks, and he feels his cheeks warm with shame. He allows his head to fall forward and hide his face, and there is silence in the room for a moment.

Bond’s arm has not withdrawn from its position across his chest, and if anything, he feels it tighten a fraction. 

“Was it recent?” Bond asks, and Tiago cannot answer - not because the answer is yes, but because the answer is that he cannot remember if it was this morning, or yesterday, or any of the hundred other days that he has - that they -

“James,” Trevelyan says in a pleasantly light tone, “remind me. Were there any members of the Ministry of State Security left alive in the building by the time you liberated our friend here?” 

Bond shakes his head.

“No,” he answers. “There weren’t.” 

Tiago is shaking and there is nothing he can do about it. There is nowhere to run to - nowhere to hide from this, and he would, if he could. He would curl into a ball, would conceal himself - would do anything other than just sit here, but Bond’s arm has not moved, and now his other hand is on Tiago’s shoulder, squeezing gently, and Trevelyan is not looking at him with pity, he realizes when he glances upward, but sympathy. 

“If I ever find that there is a single man or woman alive who is responsible for what was done to you, I will be happy to kill them myself,” Alec says, and it is a promise for all that it is spoken in the same urbane tone of voice he’d used to question Bond. “Shall we move on to your legs?” 

He is - still not hurting, Tiago realizes. He is not in much pain, and they have discovered what has happened and - nothing has changed. There is no jeering. There are no leers - no lust in the way they touch him. He is unmolested.

Alec has just promised to protect him, and has asked a question.

“Go - go ahead down there,” he answers shakily. “Get their filth off of me, please.” He turns his head into Bond’s arm, and does not look, and Alec proceeds as requested, cleaning his arse and genitals in a gentle but businesslike fashion. When he’s done he moves onto Tiago’s legs without a word, and neither Bond or Trevelyan comments on the tears that spill silently down Tiago’s cheeks onto Bond’s arm. 

They drain the tub and refill it, and Tiago can feel himself begin to relax again. The new water is hot - still wonderfully hot, with no sudden burst of freezing cold to shock him out of the pleasant dream of being clean again. He looks down at his body and is pleasantly surprised to see only skin - criss-crossed by injuries, true, and tingling, but not covered in dirt or blood. Alec runs the washrag over him once more, gently, mindful of the half-healed burns and lacerations. 

“Right,” Bond says, “just the hair left.” 

He tries to be silent while they wash his hair - truly, he does. They are not pulling or ripping it out by the roots and yet he cannot quite help the low whine that escapes his throat when Bond’s hand touches his scalp and massages soap into his hair. The hand freezes immediately, and Tiago takes a long breath in, releases it, and then gestures to Bond to continue. 

“Alright?” Bond asks, and Tiago nods.

“Yes,” he answers. “Yes, I’m alright. I - just - how bad is it?” 

“Uneven. There’s a cut here and another one here, and a shaved spot here,” Alec answers, gently touching the spots in question. “No nits, though.” 

Tiago closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of relief.

“No mats?” he asks. 

“Nothing that can’t be solved with a good comb and a bit of time,” Bond answers, and Tiago relaxes.

“I was afraid - you would have to take it,” he confesses. “It’s all I have left of my mother.” 

“No need for that,” Bond answers. “Tilt your head forward for the rinse.” 

Water splashes over Tiago’s head and his now clean hair spills over his face as he does so. He tilts his head back again, and Bond wrings the water out of his hair for him. 

“You’re actually that shade of blond,” Alec marvels. “I confess, I thought you were putting it on.”

That’s - _fucking outrageous._ Tiago raises his head. 

“You thought that I was dying my hair?” he asks incredulously, and turns his head to look at Alec, who gives him a helpless shrug.

“It’s _platinum!”_ he defends, and Tiago - 

Tiago closes his eyes, and gives the first huff of genuine, normal laughter he’s uttered in three months. 

“I don’t dye it,” he tells Alec. “My sister’s hair is the same.” 

“You have a sister?” Bond asks, and Tiago does not get the chance to answer, because he is finally clean and now it is time for the arduous task of drying off and getting dressed again. He tests his limbs and finds that they are still somewhat wobbly but less so than before as Bond drains the bath. Together they help Tiago up, Alec holding up a towel and Bond helping Tiago to his feet with both hands. They wrap the towel around his waist and then, dignity restored, they aid him in sitting down on the bed to have his hair combed and injuries dressed.

************************************************************

In the end, the count comes to fifteen burns, twelve lacerations across his back and another ten marking his sides, a fractured ankle, badly strained shoulder muscles, what Bond strongly suspects are five broken ribs, although they cannot prove it without the aid of an x-ray, and a bite mark that makes Alec’s jaw clench in helpless fury. Regardless - Tiago’s torso is swathed in bandages before the night is out, with one thigh joining in the fun, as Alec calls it. It’s a bloody miracle he’s walking, much less able to struggle into the pajamas that Alec has brought, but he insists, and so James leaves the bedroom as Rodriguez requests and comes to sit with Alec in the main room.

“What now?” Alec asks, and James lets out a huff of breath.

“Bugger if I know,” he admits. “I didn’t exactly stop to think things through, I just confirmed that M was behind the leak and I -”

“ _M?_ ” 

The bedroom door opens with a creak, and Rodriguez stands there, trousers half on and bandaged torso uncovered. There is a look on his face that Bond would call shock if it were not also tinged with heartbreak. 

“If I’d known this was your idea of getting dressed, I might have stayed to help,” he says mildly, and Rodriguez takes an unsteady two steps forward.

“M gave them my name?” he demands, and James stands. 

“We’ll discuss this when your cock isn’t staring me in the face,” he says. “Come on.” He strides into the bedroom, taking Rodriguez with him with the firm but gentle grip of one hand on the injured agent’s upper arm. 

“Trousers up - that’s it, one leg then the other. Arms up -” he starts, and Rodriguez shakes him off.

“I am not a child,” he snaps. “You don’t need to dress me. Deus, you are worse than Josefina!” He shrugs his pajama top on himself and then storms out of the bedroom on still-bare feet. James follows close behind, only to find Alec pacing the outer room. 

“Tell me what you have learned,” Rodriguez demands of them both, and Alec stops. 

“Don’t ask me, I’ve only just arrived,” he answers, and gestures to Bond. “Take it away, James.” 

He stops his pacing for a moment, and looks to James pointedly. 

“Rodriguez -” James starts, and the younger agent turns back to him. 

“It cannot be M -” he starts hotly, and Alec flops into a chair.

“It very much can,” he says mildly. “Has it occurred to you that you’re limping about on a fractured joint?” He looks to Rodriguez’s bandaged ankle pointedly, and James gets the impression that if there were a newspaper available, Alec would be looking at Tiago overtop it.

Rodriguez turns. He looks at Alec, and then back at Bond and - 

Just sort of crumples. He all but falls into a chair, and the look he directs at Bond is the most lost expression James has ever seen on a grown man’s face.

“It was not her,” Tiago insists, but it’s less angry accusation and more desperate plea. “It’s a lie - whoever told you that - they were _lying_ -”

Bond simply looks at him and shakes his head, and then slowly, like a toy with its strings cut, Rodriguez sinks to the ground, shoulders shaking, silent sobs wracking his form. It’s heart-rending - gut-wrenching - and then, with a curse and the shriek of a chair pulled too hastily across the floor, Alec gets to his feet only to drop to his knees beside the younger agent, whom he wraps in his arms and holds.

“And there’s the breakdown,” he murmurs as the sobbing continues. “Lucky bastard’s having it a great deal earlier in the process than I did. Shh - that’s it, let it go, you can’t plot revenge without being compos mentis.” 

“Alec -” James starts, and Alec shoots him a glance.

 _We are_ _not_ _letting this go,_ he manages to convey with a glare. _Not this. Don’t you dare._

It’s enough. James drops into a chair as well, and rubs a hand over his face.

“God,” he murmurs, and sits, and waits until Tiago’s sobs have lessened and the man has gone limp in Alec’s arms. “What now?” Bond asks, and Tiago looks up. His face is a puffy, reddened mess and his hair is wild. His eyes are hazy.

“Ow,” he says, and Bond suddenly realizes that he has been sobbing with five broken ribs.

“Yes, I’d think so,” he agrees, and Tiago closes his eyes.

“Are there any painkillers?” he asks plaintively. 

“There are if you'll eat something,” Bond answers, and Tiago nods wearily. He slumps for a moment and then slowly, laboriously, and with help from Alec, he gets to his feet. He sits down again a moment later, and stares at the grain of the wooden table. One hand picks at it, and the other sits in his lap.

“They hurt me over and over again for three months,” he says at last, voice rough with tears still. “I never told them anything. I told myself - she wouldn’t leave me there. I was her best agent. And all the while, she had given them my name. She led them to my door. They threatened to carve out my _eyes_ while they took my fingernails - “

He is shaking, Bond realizes. Rodriguez’s hands curl inward to form fists, and abruptly he stands, looking as if he wants to pace, or perhaps go for some air. 

“I’m going to take a piss,” he announces, and hobbles his way back toward the bathroom hurriedly. Neither Alec or James comment at the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut or the sounds of weeping that follow.

“So. What are we going to do with him?” Alec asks at last. He looks to James, who runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“I haven’t the faintest,” he admits. “I just - I couldn’t leave him there, Alec. They’d taken him the way they took you and when I found out - I couldn’t let it pass, I couldn’t stand for it _._ There was - Christ, the things they had _done-_ ”

“It all seemed fairly standard to me,” Alec confesses, and James can feel the air leave his lungs entirely. They sit in silence for a moment and then, somehow, James summons the courage to ask. 

“The bit with the - the scars from the electric baton -” 

_The ones that run like lightning across Rodriguez’s arms and chest and curl alarmingly around his groin,_ he means but doesn’t say, and he can’t finish the question because - because he’s got no right to ask, no right to say _God, Alec, I’m so fucking sorry -_

“They stuck to fire, in Russia,” Alec answers quietly, and James - not Bond, not now, not in this moment - winces. 

“Christ,” he swears, and Alec nods. 

“That’s what I said at first,” he says half-jokingly, and when James turns his gaze to him, he simply rolls up one sleeve. There are scars running up and down the length of it, akin to the ones on Alec’s face but neater - damningly, incriminatingly neater, more even.

They are still angry and red and raised and it hurts to look at them. James reaches forward and clasps Alec’s wrist with one hand, feeling the scar tissue against his hands as he does so. 

“God, Alec, what the hell did they do to you?” he asks in a breathless, horrified whisper, and Alec, damn him, snorts. 

“The bastards thought they could force me to divulge the whereabouts of all of our secret bases in Russia,” he answers almost carelessly. “When it occurred to them that I couldn’t tell them if I was screaming for my mother, they flung me back into my cell. A trifle, really - they didn’t begin to get truly creative for another few months -”

“Alec,” James interrupts. “What did they do?” 

Alec stops, and sighs. He fidgets, and then, quietly, he answers.

“They heated a length of metal over an open flame and then when it was red hot they applied it to my skin until it blistered and I screamed myself hoarse. I was strapped down and helpless, and they did it day after day until they’d ruined my face and realized that I wasn’t going to give in. That’s when they moved to brainwashing. Is that what you wanted to know?” 

That’s - that is - 

Alec is looking at him almost expectantly. There is a bitter downturn to his mouth, one that Bond can read like a book. He’s frightened - frightened that Bond will recoil, perhaps, or shout, or - 

He’s scared rather than angry. He’s _scared,_ and that can’t stand.

James swallows hard. He takes a breath, and unclenches his jaw to save his teeth from shattering, and he tries to find the words to say something, anything that won’t break this tentative truce they’ve declared. 

“They didn’t ruin your face,” he says after a moment. He does not release Alec’s wrist - instead, he slowly, carefully raises his other hand, elbow on the table between them, and brushes his fingers against Alec’s face. He can hear Alec’s breathing quicken - can see the look in his green eyes, and the quick flash of terror there before he closes them and breathes out, slowly, controlled. 

“James -” he starts, and then his eyes open again and he surges forward, gripping James’ lapels and kissing him bruisingly hard. His hands are trembling against James’ chest, breathing so fast he’s nearly panting - 

And he smells every bit as wonderful as he always has. James wraps both arms around him and kisses back every bit as hard and then holds Alec while he sobs with relief.

“James - I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I tried to fucking _kill you_ -” 

“I’d have done the same in your place, it’s alright, it’s alright, I’m here, I’ve got you,” James cuts him off, and Alec can’t seem to help the way he nips at James’ shoulder possessively.

“I was so bloody jealous,” he murmurs after a moment. “All those women - all the gambling and the fast cars, 007, M’s favorite while I was out in the cold. They told me - they convinced me you’d abandoned me, that you’d done it on purpose - Christ, James, I’m sorry.” 

It’s a broken whisper against James' shoulder. James pulls back a fraction to look Alec in the eyes.

“You remember what really happened now?” he asks, and Alec nods miserably. 

“I remember,” he confirms. He raises a hand to his head and brushes aside his hair on the left side. There is a scar there, perhaps half an inch wide and reaching toward the back of his skull. 

“That’s where the bullet hit,” James says, understanding, and he leans forward to kiss the spot. “I’m glad Ourumov missed.” 

Alec nods. 

“I’d have lost the eye if this had happened in the explosion,” he says quietly, gesturing to his scarred face. “I should have seen it earlier.”

“So should I,” James answers, and strokes Alec’s cheek again. “I’m sorry, Alec. I don’t know what the hell possessed me the night I saw you again. I wish I could blame it on Onatopp but I -”

“You saw me there and wondered why the hell I’d let you suffer for nine years,” Alec says, and James nods. 

“Seems we’re a pair of prickly bastards,” he agrees, and Alec gives a huff of laughter. He buries his face in James’ shoulder again and stays there for a moment, just breathing in James’ scent. He’s released his grip on James’ lapels, now, and moved his hands to wrap around James’ waist. 

“I didn’t exactly plead my case well,” he says. “You figured it out eventually.” 

“I’m not sorry about Onatopp,” James confesses. “Small wonder you weren’t thinking clearly for nine years if they had her there to squeeze your brains out of your ears if you misbehaved.” 

“I never slept with her!” Alec exclaims, pulling away. “Christ, James, what do you take me for? I might have been brainwashed but I wasn’t suicidal!” 

“So she always -?” James asks, and Alec shudders. 

“Yes,” he answers. “Vile woman. No - Ourumov brought her in.” 

He settles back into James’ arms easily, and gives a sigh of contentment. 

“Thank you, for killing Ourumov,” he says - and then the bathroom door opens at last, and they spring apart, looking suddenly, guiltily toward the hallway.

“Don’t bother,” Tiago says, waving a hand toward them. “The bathroom walls are thin.”

He flops down onto a chair, and looks up at them both.

“Everything alright?” Alec asks, and Tiago nods wearily.

“I’ve got a lovely headache, and I haven’t eaten in three days,” he reports. “And I cannot keep crying if I haven’t got enough water to form tears. Where is the food?” 

“Kitchen,” Alec reports. “Here - let me get it.” He reaches out to James and squeezes his hand, and then moves toward the kitchen. There is the sound of a refrigerator opening and closing, and then, much to Bond’s surprise, he hears Alec begin humming to himself. He doesn’t quite catch himself grinning before Rodriguez looks at him. The younger agent’s mouth quirks upward in a smile. 

“Now I understand why you did not tell MI6 he was alive,” Tiago says, and Bond gives him a look. 

“It’s a tricky situation,” he agrees. “We’re all going to have to go underground after this, unless you’d like to take your chances turning up in M’s office and begging forgiveness for not being dead.” 

Tiago’s countenance darkens.

“I don’t like the idea, no,” he answers frankly. “I want -” He stops, and runs a hand through his hair. “I want revenge,” he confesses. “And I want to see my sisters again and I cannot have those things together.” 

“Vengeance comes in many forms,” James points out mildly. He sits down across from Rodriguez at the table. “How’s your - everything?” he asks, making a vague sort of gesture. 

Tiago frowns.

“It is painful,” he answers. “But - less than before.” He shifts in the chair. “These fit well,” he admits about the pajamas. 

“I wouldn’t put it past Alec to have broken into your flat,” Bond says, and Rodriguez’s brow furrows.

“There can’t be much left inside,” he says, but he turns his attention to the pajama top again, examining it. “They could be mine,” he admits, looking suddenly pleased. 

“Call it a courtesy of the service,” Bond jokes, and the younger agent gives him a speculative gaze. 

“Now that,” he says after a moment, “is an idea.”

***********************************************************************************

“I wish someone had done this for you after you were captured,” James murmurs sleepily into Alec’s ear sometime later. “Not just the rescue - the pajamas and decent food and painkillers. All of it.”

He gestures toward Tiago with his chin. The younger man has fallen asleep on the opposite corner of the couch, legs curled up close to his chest, finally resting. His blond hair is falling into his face, loose and clean, and his face has at last lost the pained, pinched look it had held throughout the day. Alec and James are curled up on the other end of the sofa, and Alec cannot recall the last time he was this comfortable - saving, of course, the last time he’d curled up in James’ arms this way eleven years ago. 

“I thought he was going to cry when I brought the plates out,” Alec agrees. “I remember being that hungry for something other than gruel.”

James’ arm tightens around Alec’s waist, and he gently kisses Alec’s temple. There’s a moment’s silence, and then -

“I don’t remember being that young,” James says, gesturing to Tiago. “God, look at him. Were we ever that young?”

“He’s twenty-eight according to his file,” Alec answers. “Same age I was when it happened. You weren’t thirty yet either at the time.” 

James closes his eyes, and runs his fingers through Alec’s hair.

“We can’t keep letting this happen, Alec,” he says quietly. “I’d do today all over again a hundred times if it meant never letting another young agent go through what you did.” 

“No one else is going to make it stop,” Alec points out quietly. He’s thought about this. He’s thought about this a lot.

James sits up behind him. Alec turns his head to meet his lover’s serious blue-eyed gaze. 

“What?” he asks, and James frowns.

“I can’t go back to MI6 after this,” he says. “I ran off, broke into a classified Chinese government blacksite, and extracted a prisoner without any assignment from M or authority to do so. Best case scenario I’d be court martialed and in the worst -”

“They would hand you over to the Chinese as compensation,” Alec says. “I’m aware. I’m meant to be dead and Rodriguez was handed over to be tortured to death. So now that we’re all three pariahs -”

“We’re free to do whatever it is we want,” James says. “I don’t want to allow this sort of thing to happen again, Alec. Not after you. Not after him.”

Alec lets his right hand reach upward to James’ neck and draw him down for a kiss.

“Then let’s make sure it doesn’t.” 

“If it’s all the same to you, I would like to sleep for a month first,” Tiago murmurs. He’s awake now, if slightly muzzy about the edges, and James laughs. 

“I think we can manage that,” he says. “Come on - time for bed for all of us. I’ll take the first watch.”

*************************************************************************************

Five Months Later: 

“I told you, I am not eating that for dinner, it tastes like cardboard,” Tiago says for the third time, and Alec rolls his eyes.

The living room of the headquarters they’ve claimed for themselves is small. The furniture is all comfortable at Tiago and Alec’s insistence, and there is a desk in one corner and a table in the center, which is currently covered in newspaper after the last debacle involving food and sensitive intelligence. 

“Just because you’re a bloody pizza snob -” Alec starts, and Tiago snorts.

“I am a human being with functioning taste buds and you should come with me to New York for decent pizza,” he opines. Alec wrinkles his nose, and James rolls his eyes. 

“We’re meant to be leaving for Dublin in fifteen minutes,” he says, speaking past a mouthful of the said cardboard. “Eat your pizza, they’re serving curry again on the plane.” 

It’s Tiago’s turn to wrinkle his nose. 

“Ugh,” he responds, and grabs a piece of pizza from the box. “Next time at least order the mushrooms.” 

“Can’t,” Alec says. “I’m allergic.” Tiago raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Peppers, then?” he asks - and then the phone rings.

James considers not getting it. It’s Friday afternoon, and their impromptu holiday is already planned -

“James - that’s the emergency line,” Alec says, and gets up from his position on James’ lap. He stuffs his pizza into his mouth and reaches for the phone. James swats his arse, and takes the phone himself.

“Bond,” he answers.

“Bond - it’s Tanner. You’re headed to Ireland, aren’t you?” 

James sits up. Alec freezes, and Tiago pauses mid-bite, then sets his slice of pizza down on a plate and brushes the crumbs from his hands, carefully avoiding his immaculate white suit. 

“Who is it?” he mouths, and Bond shakes his head.

“Tanner,” he answers down the phone line. “What’s happened?” 

“Turn on the news,” Tanner says, and it takes all of five seconds for Bond to gesture frantically toward the television. Alec switches the tv on, and they turn as one toward it.

There is a man on the screen. He is tall and thin and heavily bearded - and he is currently being forced to his knees in what looks like a paramilitary base with his hands tied behind his back. He is shaking, and there is blood around the zip tie bonds. 

“IRA,” Alec says. “Look at the uniform.” 

“Belfast,” Tiago supplies. His green eyes are trained on the screen, and there is something fragile in the way his mouth tightens.

“His name is Gareth Mallory. He’s a Captain in the SAS,” Tanner says. “Get him out, please, gentlemen. I’m not sure how much time he’s got left.”

“How long?” James asks. 

“Three months. This is the first time they’ve let him be seen on recordings,” Tanner answers. “M knows. Good luck.”


End file.
